


These walls are filled with blame

by huddledintrenches



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddledintrenches/pseuds/huddledintrenches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would take a cab ride to Downing Street and a strong cup of coffee to sort him out, but Jamie MacDonald does the job as well.</p>
<p>A collection of Malcolm/Jamie moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These walls are filled with blame

It’s not love. It can’t be, they’re so sure of that, both of them. They’re colleagues, mates at the best of times, and yes, sometimes they happen to be the only company the other one can take, but there is no way it could possibly be love. At least not at the beginning.

It’s Malcolm who gets Jamie into politics, and the moment he promises him a job with him he’s absolutely certain that there’s no one else in government who would have so much as considered bringing him in.  
His CV is impressive in every wrong way imaginable, so when Malcolm reads of the trainee priest excluded from the seminary for intimate contact with girls and a foul mouth ‘rivalling that of the bastard who raised him’ - as he is told in Jamie’s interview -, who then went to write for some minor newspapers to earn a living and, convinced that he was fit to change to wind of politics, decided to apply for a job with the Labour party, he naturally doesn’t hesitate before getting him on-board.  
It’s only a few months later, during the campaign leading up to the election of ’97, that he realises just how good a decision that was. Jamie does what he’s told, as long as it’s Malcolm who tells him; they establish that rule without talking about it within a matter of days. The other bastards in opposition are all a bunch of Oxbridge wankers, you can’t escape them down south, the Scot says insistently, but he believes from the start that under Malcolm’s lead they have a chance to get into government and fuck the Tories so hard they’ll throw up firecrackers of shite, and he works harder for him than he’s ever worked before. It’s easy for them, settling into a rhythm. Malcolm will appear to bark at a certain shadow minister, show him just why he’s a complete and utter cock, then send Jamie in to emphasise the message, and together they do the trick without a doubt.  
When they receive a clear majority on election night later that year, the younger Scot has already found his place next to Malcolm, always no more than a step behind, a hand on his shoulder, congratulating them both, and the older man doesn’t regret having brought him in one bit.

Malcolm knows from very early on that he doesn’t much like Maisie MacDonald. In a way, his newly wedded wife is the most obvious tell-tale sign that Jamie has a life outside of Number 10, away from him, that he has someone to go home to, a reason to want to leave, and he can’t and doesn’t want to explain why, but for some reason, that fact bothers him. She is also the inevitable proof of how thick Jamie MacDonald can truly be. Malcolm doesn’t think he’s ever met someone so disinterested in current affairs and pretty much anything of relative importance and so absorbed in unimportant trivia as Jamie’s wife. She’s got a pretty face, he has to give her that, but he would have expected the young man to be able to look past that. Her qualities don’t reach very far beyond her looks, he cruelly remarks, and he’s not surprised when Jamie starts working longer hours after not more than a year, already weary from the wife who keeps asking him to make time, and ultimately love, for her. He exchanges that time, frequently now, for yet another strategy meeting or bollocking at Malcolm’s side. At that point, the younger Scot already knows that he and his wife have is no more than a fleeting passion, not because at home they hardly ever stop arguing these days, but because of how alive he feels when he’s with his boss. He tells him things he’s never concerned Maisie with, and Malcolm begins to do the same.  
After a particularly rough night fighting a leak that might well have been cause for resignation for one of the most prominent ministers under the Labour government, Malcolm, too exhausted to be himself, to push every sense of emotion out of the way, takes him aside and plans to thank him for doing the job that no one else can. When he opens his mouth, Jamie grins and asks him if he’s gonna propose to him or summat, judging by the wee look on his face, and the older man shoves him up against the nearest bookshelf and kisses him instead.  
Malcolm’s thinking of the consequences this might have when he buries a bony hand in dark, brown hair, but when he’s forcefully kissed back, he lets it all go. He forgets that he doesn’t do this, at all, that his wife’s waiting for him, and so is Jamie’s, and that work is the last place he would ever have thought of doing this.  
They leave his office half an hour later, neither of them losing a word about what just happened between them, only doubt filling the void between them, because they’re both starting to see that they’re not where they ought to be.  
In an attempt to prove to himself that Maisie is the woman he needs, Jamie gets her pregnant. He’s with Malcolm when he receives the message of his wife being in hospital, and when he arrives to welcome the newborn Emily Grace MacDonald into the world, he’s accompanied by a grey shadow in an expensive coat who watches him intently when he takes his family into his arms, a lopsided grin on his usually shouting face and feels a pain in his chest he takes to be anger at a wife who doesn’t know her husband at all. Malcolm leaves without a word, sure that Jamie will never notice. He thanks the god he doesn’t believe in that he doesn’t love the fucker.

Jamie is the one to pick up the pieces when the relatively new Mrs Tucker walks out on her relatively busy husband – not, for the record, because the bitch fucking hurt him and the expression on Malcolm’s face when he, in a whisper, says ‘She’s left’ makes him want to skin her alive, but because it’s the only thing that will get the Prime Minister’s enforcer back to work and help them stay in government. Someone’s got to bloody do it, he says to himself, and Malcolm, repeatedly, because he thinks that if he says it over and over again, like a mantra, he’ll believe it’s the truth.  
He stays over at Malcolm’s, these rough nights, planning to sleep on the couch and somehow always ending up in his boss’ bed. In the end, he’s never quite sure just how it happened, but he’s certain it always starts with a smashed glass of whiskey and Malcolm’s fist hitting the wall.  
He hardly ever speaks in these moments, the great Malcolm Tucker, who’s never lost for words, always an insult on his lips to throw back at you. Jamie thinks he might be one of the only people to have seen him like this, raging like a maniac, no longer with a real purpose behind the violence. It’s usually Jamie who does these things, like a dog that’s unleashed at Malcolm’s whim and destroys everything in his way. It’s easy, then, to give in, when he’s weak like that and there’s nothing but rage and his tailored suit keeping him together.  
Jamie has an actual excuse in these moments, to come over and hold him, not in a jesse girl kind of way, but tight enough to make his boss unable to move. They both know that if he lets him go now they might well wake up the next day to a flat in shatters. He holds on, insistent on not letting go, and he thinks it must be because the auld fucker needs him to - and it’s true, he does -, but he doesn’t do it for Malcolm, who trembles in his arms because no one’s ever been able to hurt him like his wife has, and because he can’t get his head around the fact that it feels alright to give in to Jamie, where he’s never surrendered himself before.  
It would take a cab ride to Downing Street and a strong cup of coffee to sort him out, but Jamie MacDonald does the job as well. He gets him into a shower, and if he sees himself cry he never mentions it. When he gets out, there’s another glass of liquor along with an unusually quiet Scot waiting for him, and when they get to that point it’s Malcolm’s turn to hold on, when he knows that this is his time to leave, and he can’t let him. Neither of them say a word, but Jamie understands, and complies, for both of their sakes, laying where Malcolm’s wife used to, only he never let her see him nearly as weak as this. They fall asleep holding onto each other and when Jamie returns to his wife the next night he tells her there was an emergency at work and he spent the night at the office.

It’s not love, it’s just the work that they do, they’ll say. It’s demanding, having to put up with so much stupidity in one place, and being the only sane people keeping everyone in line, of course it is, and one of them is bound to lose it from time to time, and anyway, they should just be glad to have at least found someone in this madness who could keep a clear head when something hits them. Malcolm decides very early on that in spite of him proving quite an addition to his team, he in no way needs Jamie, or anyone at Number 10, and that if he ever has to, he’ll do fine without him. But then again, he’s too bloody useful for Malcolm to even consider letting him go. He doubts, in a quiet moment - one of those when he’s watching Jamie work intently, even though he doesn’t quite want to admit that to himself how fascinated he is by the younger man – that there’s anyone else who can simultaneously fight a leak coming from the Department of Defence in altitudes high enough to make a child’s ears burst and complain about the football results to anyone who will listen. He never understands why Jamie’s so in love with the sport, but the only time he can remember waking up later than 6 am during his time in government, it’s to the Scot’s triumphant shouting when Scotland beats England on his day off.  
They have the common sense to never touch at work. None of them has ever had to say it out loud, and so they never go any further than a pat on the shoulder. Whenever there’s anyone to see them, they keep any kind of physical contact to a minimum. Jamie proudly counts this as yet another proof that they cannot possibly be in love, but Julius Nicholson notices just this and concludes that they very much are.

They work together for almost 10 years, and both of them lose a wife along the way. Malcolm never really recovers. Jamie does almost instantly.  
He comes home early one afternoon, determined to surprise Maisie with flowers and Emily with a new doll he picks up on the way, only to find her in the kitchen, crying when she tells him about the child in her belly that’s not his. He hates himself for it, but the first thing he feels is relief that it’s not his fault it ends, that he can still convince himself he tried, and that he was just doing his job when he fucked Malcolm. He can’t bring himself to be angry with her, but he pretends to be anyway, scared that she’ll see right through him. Unsurprisingly, she does no such thing.  
He and Malcolm never really talk about it after he tells him, and Malcolm senses that he doesn’t want to, either. The only thing he misses is Emily, who Maisie takes with her when she goes, but he visits her every other weekend, and hopes what he’s doing is not like what his father did to him.  
The only thing that changes between him and Malcolm is that he visits more often now, and he likes to pretend it’s because he can’t bear staying at home now, but really it’s because they’re both free to do what they like now – even though they can’t say they cared all too much before – and they both know it.  
He needs Malcolm, way more than he’s ever needed anyone, but of course he wouldn’t ever accept that. Jamie is certain his dependence on his boss, and his constant visits that made his boss’ house his home are why Maisie did it, and in his darker moments he thinks to himself that if their places had been traded, he would have strayed as well.  
They begin arriving at work together in the morning and leaving at the same time in the evenings. They take different cars on certain days, to make it less obvious, and if anyone ever notices what they’re doing behind closed doors, they’re too scared to tell anyone.

They fight. Regularly, loudly, and relentlessly. Jamie loves it, setting Malcolm off, and he knows over a thousand ways to do it. Malcolm pretends to hate him for it, just as he pretends to hate him for a lot of things, and the shouting that becomes an actual fight all too quickly with them becomes a very popular sport among the two men in no time.  
When they start out it’s simply a way of keeping the energy in both of them going when they‘re starting to grow weary and there’s no coffee at hand that can keep them sufficiently awake, but now that they’re sleeping together, a fight between them usually ends with red lines on one of their backs and a post-coital fag for Jamie.  
It’s never quite clear who wins, although both Malcolm and Jamie always claim the victory for themselves. They start fighting for that, as well, and when Jamie’s hands violently grip Malcolm’s greying hair, the other man’s response being a rough kiss that makes his lower lip bleed, they both feel more alive than ever.  
At the beginning of a fight, there’s always two ways it can go. Either they end up bashing each other’s heads in as they curse the other to their death, or they end up in bed. 90 % of the time, it’s the latter that’s the case.  
When Malcolm backs Tom for the leadership of the party and Jamie betrays him because he knows what a horrible idea that is, it’s the former that happens.  
They’re in a car home, and Jamie’s so exhausted that the only thing keeping him awake is the older Scot’s bony hand that has a tight grip on his forearm. When Malcolm tells him in a quiet, dangerously tense whisper that he’s fired, his brain doesn’t quite process the words right away. But then it hits Jamie, hard.  
Tom’s won. He’s done for. In a way, he knows he should have expected this to happen, ever since the moment when Malcolm fought so hard to maintain his position and push his candidate forward. He should have known that at this point, he was nothing but a plan B in case the Nutters didn’t quite make it, even if that was a long shot. Now that they’ve won, Malcolm doesn’t need him anymore, not when Jamie’s betrayed him the moment he was too honest to back the candidate of his choice.  
The first thing he feels is hurt, then anger immediately after. He’s going to remember shouting, way louder than he ever has before. He’ll remember storming after Malcolm when he gets out, punching his kitchen wall and feeling like he’s losing everything he has.  
The Scot knows right away that this is, irrefutably, the end. No one but Malcolm could ever get him back, and it’s Malcolm he’s lost, Malcolm he probably won’t ever see face to face again. There’s nothing keeping them together now, because they’re not even in love, they share no bonds that are not cut now.  
Jamie thinks about kissing him when he leaves, for old times’ sake, and slams the door instead. The rain outside mixes with tears he wishes weren’t there and when he takes the Tube home he almost gets arrested when he hears some cunt talking about Tom’s leadership victory and decides his face would look a whole lot better with his fist in it. When he finally he gets home, he breaks his wrist in a sad attempt to knock down his bathroom mirror, and consequently doesn’t leave his flat for the rest of the week.

Jamie doesn’t cope very well on his own. In the course of two weeks, he destroys three new television sets when the BBC blames a certain Scottish spin-doctor for Tom’s smooth takeover. At some point he realises there’s no point, and destroys the rest of the room instead. He sleeps on the couch from then on.  
All this time he doesn’t allow himself to think about the fact that he’s out of a job, out of a life, the only life he thinks he could actually be happy leading. He tells himself that he’s fine, and then he thinks of Malcolm in Number 10, probably being bummed by baldy Lord fucking Nicholson, who he’s sure has only been waiting for something like this to happen, and immediately has the strong urge to go on a killing spree through Westminster. He knows Malcolm doesn’t miss him; the thought alone is absolutely preposterous, and when his mind wanders to the image of his former boss being sucked off by one of his bumboys, he tries not to miss him, either.  
It takes no more than 3 months before the man who used to be his fucking life becomes the story again. His former employee watches on the news; Steve Fleming’s back at Downing Street, and Malcolm Tucker is slowly but inevitably losing control. At first Jamie thinks it might pass, but when the press don’t stop harassing him publicly, he’s almost certain that this might actually be the end of him.  
On the third day of the Malcolm Tucker shitstorm in the news, he resigns. He’s seen leaving Number 10; the ever apparent vein on his forehand pulsating wildly and his face a grimace of disappointment and dismay. Jamie wants to be pleased that the man who did this to him met the same ends, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything but more of the endless pain that’s haunted him for weeks now. Malcolm’s face on his television serves merely as a mirror of the way he’s feeling inside.  
The next day, Malcolm Tucker’s former personal assistant rings him. Jamie’s always liked Samantha, although he never showed it enough for their boss’ liking. He knows she only wants what’s best for him, and more than that, she knows what that is, most of the time, so when he reads her name on the Blackberry that’s been sitting quietly on his living room table for the past however long, he knows he was right to be worried.  
‘Jamie, I think it’s time you came back. He needs you. He didn’t say that of course, but he does” she says. His first reaction is to laugh, loud enough for him to feel his chest vibrating. He realises then that this is the first time he’s so much as smiled in the last 3 months. His second reaction is simply Fuck It. After that, he buys a bottle of strong liquor and hails a cab.

‘Oi, gobshite, you look even more disgusting in real life than you do on television, and I’ve got fucking BBC HD’ Jamie smiles at him, wickedly. He can’t tell how he regained the ability to do that, but he’s pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with the origami folded piece of shit that’s just opened the door in front of him, because the sight of the fallen Malcolm Tucker must surely be enough to make even the Dalai Lama develop suicidal thoughts.  
Malcolm looks as though he’d like nothing more than to strangle Jamie in broad daylight, and the young Scot thinks that’s a good thing, because at least he’s not lost that part of his spirit.  
When he speaks, though, Jamie thinks he might take that back. His voice is hollow, and there’s no sign of real struggle at all. ‘Fuck off, Jamie’  
He’s about to slam the door in his face, but Jamie’s foot gets there first. He lets himself in, pushing Malcolm out of the way, who doesn’t even have the strength to protest any more. He lets himself fall on the spin-doctor’s expensive couch, not bothering to take his shoes off in an attempt to make his former boss the tiniest bit mad. Leaving his muddy footprints all over his house used to make Malcolm mad like little else. Now, he doesn’t even batter an eyelid.  
‘For fuck’s sake, Malc, throw your fucking hissy fits when you’re back in Number 10, it’s not gonna help anyone if you sit here crying like a wee lass’ He stares at the man he’s trying so hard not to love, and wishes desperately for some kind of reaction, anything to indicate that all is not lost.  
‘There is no back, Jamie. Steve Fleming and his fucking Barmy Army’ve won. Don’t you get it - I resigned’ There’s a flicker in his eye, but he’s not quite there yet.  
‘Oh, I get it, Fleming’s nicked your lunch money and you’ve gone crying home to mummy because you’re too old for a proper fight’ Jamie grins, and for some reason, that does it.  
Malcolm’s at his throat in a heartbeat, and the younger man isn’t slow to respond either. He feels his bony hands wrapping around his own throat, and lands a punch on Malcolm’s chin. They tumble and fall, and as they roll across the floor he feels oddly happy, because he’s done it, and he’s back, and he has no idea what this means for them, but his plan’s working, and for now that’s all that matters to him. Malcolm knocks the other man’s head against the living room table, and Jamie can feel the blood running down at the side of his face. He grabs his shoulder and shakes him violently, pumped up with adrenaline.  
The next thing he feels are Malcolm’s lips on his and their fight continues. He bites down hard, and Malcolm growls when he tastes his own blood on Jamie’s tongue. They tug on each other’s clothes, too lost in the haze of the fight to remove them properly, and so they continue rolling over the living room floor, Malcolm pulling Jamie’s hair whilst Jamie’s tongue battles his. It’s worked, he knows, and he’s glad of it. This is what Malcolm needs right now, what he’s needed for the past few months and even if it won’t fix him and the things that have happened, it’s a start. He grins triumphantly when Malcolm pushes him up on his feet, and follows him to the bedroom.

Malcolm is certain he’s never seen Jamie look as smug as he does when they lay in bed after, and that’s saying something. When he lights his fag and hums Jolson to himself, it’s like old times, and the routine of it would scare the older Scot if he weren’t so happy that he was back.  
Malcolm loves the auld bastard, in a way, even though he’d never dare say it. Jamie knows, anyway, or else he wouldn’t have that fucking grin on his lips that Malcolm is extremely determined to wipe off them as soon as he regains his strength.  
After that, destroying Fleming is next in line, with Jamie as his number 2 this time. He sure as hell won’t make that mistake twice.


End file.
